


Lions and Roses and Secrets, Oh My!

by SerpentineJ



Series: USUK Sweetheart Week 2015 [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, and a bit of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 08:58:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3375557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerpentineJ/pseuds/SerpentineJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Day 1: Valentine’s Day. Arthur finds himself with a secret admirer. USUK.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lions and Roses and Secrets, Oh My!

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: Augh, I’m sorry this is late! I’m really, really bad at deadlines. (Maybe I need a chibi Germany of my own…)

“Oh, bugger all.”

England turned over in his bed, drawing the warm, soft covers closer around him and curling in to a smaller ball at the chirping of the birds outside. Bloody cheerful sparrows.

It was Valentine’s Day.

When he had been younger, today had been one of his favorite days of the year; a time for bar-hopping and partying, flirting with miserably single humans drinking the night away, ignoring the twinge in his pirate’s heart at the thought of all the people celebrating long-term, serious, loving relationships.

He didn’t need that. He was the great British Empire, after all.

Now, however…

It became more difficult, as the years passed, as America entered and left his life, as he began to settle down, to ignore the hole in his home. One that should have been filled by a close friend or a partner, someone to warm the kettle and his bed, to go out and stay in with. As he aged, the lack of companionship became more glaring, tugging at his heartstrings and settling in his stomach like a malcontent cat.

It doesn’t matter, he told himself.

He is still the great British Empire.

~~~~~~

As usual, Britain was the first one to the UN building, sketching out the preliminary attack plan on the chalkboard before taking his seat and opening his notebook.

“Hey, Britain!”

The loud, obnoxiously bright voice pierced the room, and before he even looked up Arthur could tell it was accompanied by bright blue eyes and a charming smile. He sighs.

“Hello, America. You’re early today.”

Alfred laughed and sat down at the head of the table. “Yeah,” he said, “I figured that, as the leader of the Allied Forces and the hero, I should take more initiative!”

England raised one bushy eyebrow in a carefully cultivated look of derision. “I’m not sure the world could take any more of your ‘initiative’.”

America shook off the jibe, still chuckling. He was in an oddly good mood today; typically that kind of barely-concealed insult would be enough for him to retort with something more offensive, and it would escalate from there.

It was Valentine’s Day, though. No doubt the handsome, tall, confident, cheerful man already had a date lined up for the holiday.

Oh, yes, that was another thing.

Britain may or may not have had a slowly-growing crush on his former colony.

He let his head thump down on the oak table, ignoring America’s well-intentioned, “Dude, are you alright?”

~~~~~~

By the time everyone else had arrived, France managed to piss off half the room with stories of his various Valentine ‘adventures’ (“hon, hon, hon,” the pervert had chuckled, smirking,), Poland had hung off Lithuania’s arm for a solid hour, Switzerland was beginning to become unreasonable due to having to constantly defend Lichtenstein from Russia’s attempts to start a conversation, Prussia had managed to follow his brother to the meeting and was irritating an increasingly flustered Austria, and Germany was completely red after having been presented with a bouquet of red roses from a beaming Italy. Luckily, the country’s southern counterpart had been unable to make the meeting, much to Spain’s badly concealed disappointment, or he would have ripped Germany’s head right off his broad shoulders.

Britain sighed and rubbed his temples. Really, he could have been enjoying a nice scotch, getting increasingly inebriated and watching bed romantic comedies, but instead his presence was required at this farce of a meeting.

He turned to rifle through his messenger bag; if they weren’t going to get anything done, he might as well finish some design modifications for the new musket Scotland was working on.

His hand brushed against something that definitely wasn’t there before.

Brows furrowed, he drew it out, not seeing one hopeful blue gaze follow his every move.

~~~~~~

Honestly.

A stuffed lion.

Arthur groaned and took another draught from his pint (and yes, it was only lunchtime, but considering the day he’d had he deserved it).

Who had thought a stuffed lion was a good idea?

He frowned at his notebook, munching distractedly on his Reuben*.

Who could have snuck such an object into his bag without him noticing?

And why would they sign it “secret admirer”?

~~~~~~

“’Sup, Britain?” America grinned, slinging an arm around England’s shoulders and smiling. The other nation scowled at him.

“Please remove your limb from my person.” He groused, trying to shrug the much too cheerful man off. “What is it with you today, anyways? You’re even more ridiculously cheerful than usual.”

The other chuckled. “Just happy.” The blue-eyed nation nudged him. “D’you wanna grab a drink later? For old time’s sake?”

Now this, Britain thought, was just suspicious.

He agreed nonetheless.

~~~~~~

They agreed to meet at a small, hole in the wall pub that the American had sworn had great scotch later in the evening, so Britain headed to his hotel room, as the meeting was being held in America this time. 

When he slid the key card into the reader, the door lock disengaged with a satisfying ‘click’, and he entered his room with a relived sigh. Honestly, everyone at the meeting was absolutely useless, and-

He paused.

There was something on the desk.

Frowning, he crept cautiously towards it. His pirate days were in the past, but there was no telling what some crazy country might do to get revenge. Spain seemed to have mellowed quite a bit, but looks could be deceiving and the other nation had a dangerous violent side, and there was no telling what that baguette-bastard France would do…

Tudor roses.

A vase of them, alive and lightly scented, boldly red and brash against the monotonous cream of the wall and the dark wood of the desk.

Britain furrowed his brow and set his bag down in the chair, picking up the hotel phone and calling the reception desk.

“Hello, this is the Hetayatt Hotel, how may we help you?” A polite voice sounded from the handheld’s tinny speaker.

The country cleared his throat. “Er, yes. Could I ask if anyone entered room 352 since nine o’clock today?”

“Alright, sir,” The attendant said, “let me check my registry.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Well…”The receptionist sounds much more hesitant, unsureness coloring her voice and making it waver. “Er, we have one record of someone besides the cleaner entering your room, sir, but they requested to remain anonymous.”

He huffed. “You don’t have a physical description or anything?”

“N-no, sir, and I’m very sorry. Have a nice day!” The other hung up quickly, and Britain was left staring at the flowers on his desk.

Bugger all.

~~~~~~

An hour and a half later, the sun was slowly making its way down in the sky, bathing the streets of Washington, DC in rose-tinted light. England firmly refused to acknowledge the way even nature seemed intent on spray-painting the day pink. 

“Hey! Dude!”

He nearly rolled his eyes at the cheery shout as he walked up to the door of the bar.

“Hello, America.”

~~~~~~

“I mean, what gave the wanker the right to take it?” Britain mumbled, resting his head on the dark wood of the bar and closing his eyes. “Bloody arsehole.”

America wasn’t quite as inebriated, seeing as beer had less alcohol content than scotch. “Heh. Kind of reminds me of Honk Kong, in a way…”

The European snorted, looking up again and taking another gulp from the amber liquid in his glass, not even wincing at it burned its way down his throat. “Don’t even get me started on Hong Kong.”

~~~~~~

“Duuude… are you alright?” The younger nation only slightly slurred, blinking and peering concernedly at his companion.

The other scowled. “I’m absolutely fine, you twat.”

America huffed. “Hey, you don’t have to go getting all hostile!” He muttered, finishing the last of his beer and sighing. “You always do this…”

“What?” England looked up. “What do I always do?”

“You always push me away.” A melancholy look begins to seep into his eyes, tugging the corners of his mouth into a small frown. “Even when I try to get close.”

Britain growled. “Well… what else should I do?” His considerable eyebrows drew together, creasing his forehead. “The alternative is too risky. I calculated… and… and measured and, fucking hell, America, there’s absolutely no way you’d be interested in an old man like me so I should just cut my losses and surrender.”

There was a moment of silence, America’s eyes widening in his drunken realization.

“I-interested?” He stuttered. “Wh-what do you mean by that?”

A look of pure, unadulterated panic flashed across England’s face, and he stood up and made to leave.

Of course, it would have been far more effective if he wasn’t drunk off his ass, and all that accomplished was making him get up, stumble, and fall.

Into America.

The other nation caught him instantly, supporting him with strong arms, and they locked gazes for a moment before Britain pushed himself away, blushing furiously and trying to walk out the door.

America caught his arm. “Britain…” He murmured, voice heartbreakingly constricted. “What… what did you mean by interested?”

England tried to shake him off before whirling around to face him and spitting, “I mean, you daft idiot, that I’m a crotchety old fool who sees magical apparitions and knits, while you… you…” He gestured at America somewhat helplessly. “What can I… bloody hell… what can I say? You’re all tall and young and handsome, and smart when you’re not being fucking annoying, and clever and brave and I’m here, slipping out of relevancy while you’re so fucking important!”

“England…” America walked closer, eyes impossibly wide. “Wh- do you mean that?”

“If course I do, you fucking… fuckwit!” He all but shouted, tearing himself away. “I don’t ever say anything I don’t mean. I’m the fucking British Empire!”

“Then how can you say that?” The younger nation raised his voice slightly before bringing it down again. “Britain… I’m so immature and naïve and, honestly, not very smart; how can you say I’m better than you?”

The other’s green eyes seemed huge in the dimly-lit, nearly empty bar, slightly hazy and hesitant in a way that seemed nearly… vulnerable.

The expression was so foreign, so ill-fitted to the older country’s perpetually scowling face, that America couldn’t seem to stop himself from meaning forwards to kiss it away.

When their lips met, England’s entire body stiffened in shock; he was unresponsive to the other nation’s soft questing.

The bespectacled country pulled away, blushing nervously and ducking his head under Britain’s deer-in-the-headlights gaze.

“Er…” He rubbed the back of his neck, and pulled a bar of chocolate out of his coat pocket. “I was planning on doing that after I gave you this and ‘fessed up about being the one who’s been leaving gifts for you today…”

This seemed to snap England out of his shocked daze.

“That was you?” He says, frowning. “Wait, how did you get into my room?”

“…” America bit his lip. “I kind of own the hotel.”

The other didn’t respond for a moment before sagging, the tension draining out of his shoulders and his spine and the tendons of his neck, rubbing a hand across his forehead and chuckling tiredly.

“You imbecile.” 

America still looked painfully unsure, so Britain rectified that in the only way he could think of.

He kissed him again.

When they separated this time, both flushed and breathing slightly harder than normal, Alfred couldn’t stop a grin from blossoming on his face.

“Bartender?” The green-eyed nation called out, looking away. “We’ll have the check, please.”

The young man behind the counter looked up from wiping glasses. “Oh, your tab’s been paid.” At both countries’ perturbed looks, he nodded towards the back corner of the bar. “By that blonde gentleman. In the purple cloak.”

From a booth, France looked up from his conversation with- was that Canada?- and winked.

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: So. Yeah. This was kind of awkward to write, but I’m trying to get back in the swing of writing in the past tense, so if you see any tense discrepancies let me know!


End file.
